


From A Rut To A Groove

by lamardeuse



Series: Life, Mid-Crisis [2]
Category: Die Hard (1988 1990 1995 2007)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-03-18
Updated: 2010-03-18
Packaged: 2017-10-08 02:30:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/71762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lamardeuse/pseuds/lamardeuse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John has no idea what he's done to deserve somebody who feeds him fresh strawberries and waffles made from scratch, and he's a little apprehensive about what will happen if he starts enjoying it too much.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From A Rut To A Groove

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: Additional warning at end of story.

John wakes up to find himself in Matt's bed.

He's been waking up like that a lot lately, and he's not even sure how it started to become a habit, but it has. More and more, the prospect of driving back to his empty one-bedroom in Brooklyn after every shift pales in comparison to the prospect of an evening of laughter, food and sex.

It isn't just the nights he's starting to get used to, it's the mornings, too. Matt is disgustingly chipper before seven a.m., one of those weirdos who can get by on about five hours' sleep. He rolls out of bed before John, who's never been a morning person, and wakes him with the scent of something mouth-watering cooking in the kitchen. This morning it smells like waffles, but John can't be sure. The kid, he was surprised to discover, is one hell of a cook, and he's fearless at trying new recipes. About ninety-eight percent of his experiments seem to be a success, at least as far as John's concerned. He sure as hell wouldn't say he has a refined palate, but he knows enough to realize pretty much everything Matt cooks is delicious.

John drags his ass out of bed, brushes the moss off his teeth, throws some water on his face and glances at himself in the mirror – yep, same old fart he was last night – then pads down the hall on bare feet, noiseless, to sneak up on Matt as he stands in the kitchen slicing strawberries. For the hundredth time since this started, he feels that now-familiar mixture of confusion and tentative joy, because he has no idea what he's done to deserve somebody who feeds him fresh strawberries and waffles made from scratch, and he's a little apprehensive about what will happen if he starts enjoying it too much.

Matt turns while John's standing there, then jumps about a foot. "Jesus, McClane," he says, fumbling the knife and almost dropping it, "warn a guy before you go into stealth mode, willya?"

John moves in and places his hands on Matt's pajama-clad hips. "Wouldn't be stealth if I told you about it," he points out.

"Man, you are really – mmmm," Matt says, because John's kissing him, cutting off any further protests.

"Good morning," John murmurs.

Matt leans in for one last lick at John's lower lip. "It's getting better," he purrs, rubbing his hardening dick against John's thigh.

John leans into it for a few seconds, giving him a solid surface to rut against, then pulls back. "I'm hungry."

"Cocktease," Matt grumbles, but sprinkles the strawberries on the waffles anyway. Grinning, John reaches around him to grab the coffeepot, taking a bite of Matt's neck as he does.

"So how's the case going?" Matt asks, when John's halfway through his second waffle.

John chugs the rest of his orange juice before answering. Down at the station they've been working a double homicide for the last three weeks. The colder the trail gets, the more tempers are heating up. "Not great."

"Yeah, I figured as much. You've been kind of lost in your own head lately."

John grimaces and stares at his waffle. Holly used to say exactly the same thing to him. "Sorry."

"Don't be. It's your thing, I get that. Just don't let it drag you down, all right? You'll figure it out."

John looks up from his plate. It's not the first time the kid has said something like that, but it still has the power to surprise him.

"What?" Matt's voice is low, and his expression is fond. "You gonna call me on my hero complex?"

John shakes his head slowly.

"Good. Because I'm not complimenting you because I worship the ground you walk on. The way I figure it, anybody as crazy as you lasts this long as a cop, you must have something else going for you besides a death wish."

"Stop it, you'll swell my head," John growls, but he doesn't mean it.

Matt polishes off the last of his waffles, then gets up from the table and pats John on the top of his skull. "Wouldn't want that. You get any more shine up there, the perps'll see you coming a mile away, and you know, goodbye stealth."

John's up and out of his chair and tackling Matt before he can get away.

"That's it, get all caveman with me, I love the rough stuff," Matt sighs, and they both collapse in laughter. John's still giggling when Matt drags him off to the shower, where John gets down on his creaky knees and blows him, because Matt's gunshot wound's been bothering him lately, and besides, it's his turn.

He's buttoning his pants when Matt strolls into the bedroom, naked and drying his long hair with a towel. "You going anywhere today?" John asks. There's a hint of envy behind the question. Since most of Matt's job is done in front of his computer, there are some days when he doesn't even get out of his pajamas. There are more and more days now when John wishes he could do the same.

"Yeah, goin' to the gym later, I think." Matt throws the towel down and fishes a pair of briefs out of the drawer. "You know, you ought to join. It's not far from here and it's pretty cheap."

"I got a gym in Brooklyn," John says, reaching for his shirt – shit, he never remembers to bring an extra one with him. Kowalski's started making snide comments about him coming to work in the same clothes he was in the day before.

"Yeah, but I figured since you're over here all the time anyway – "

John stops in the middle of buttoning his shirt as it hits him that Matt is absolutely right. God, he can't remember the last time he ate at home, and he's been spending the night at Matt's apartment more often than not.

"Oh, I'm sorry, was I not supposed to mention that?" Matt asks. "Y'know, it's so great that I have you to school me on this stuff – otherwise I wouldn't know what it was like to be a Real Man."

John turns to glare at him. "Did I say anything?"

"No, but I've gotten really good at reading the way you freeze up," Matt says nonchalantly. He waves a hand. "Look, it's not going to break my heart if you don't join my gym, okay?"

After that John starts bringing a change of clothes, and within two weeks he's laid claim to about a quarter of Matt's closet. He doesn't join Matt's gym, but he takes to early morning runs around Matt's neighborhood as winter slouches into spring, and buys an extra toothbrush and sticks it in the cup beside Matt's. They don't talk about it, though John occasionally catches Matt grinning for no good reason as he stands at the bathroom sink.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

John's argument for not getting more involved in the relationship is that Matt's going to miss girls eventually, or at least people his own age. While he knows damn well that he's in better shape than a lot of men twenty years his junior, John's also realistic: in five years he'll be retiring, and Matt'll be turning thirty. That's an honest-to-God generation gap, and sooner or later Matt'll realize it's ridiculous to tie himself to a clapped out model when he can easily pick up one with a hell of a lot less mileage.

Then there's the cop thing. Holly, like a lot of cop's spouses, eventually became overwhelmed by the danger, the uncertainty, the fear; not knowing if your husband or wife's going to survive their shift tends to put a crimp in a marriage. On the other hand, Matt's seen John's life at its most perilous, so there's a possibility the problem may be reversed: instead of too much excitement, Matt might not get enough. Apart from his tendency to cross paths with criminal masterminds, John's career has been pretty damn dull. Killing helicopters with cars isn't a daily occurrence; stopping at Dunkin' Donuts for his morning extra large coffee is.

Whatever the reason, Matt doesn't seem all that worried John's going to wind up as another statistic. "You're more likely to have a heart attack from not eating right than to get your head blown off by some perp wielding a sawed-off shotgun," he says one day, right before he starts making John lunches. The first one is lean pastrami on rye with plenty of hot Dijon and big kosher pickles from the guy who shows up at Abingdon Square every Saturday morning with huge plastic barrels full of them. John catches himself smiling stupidly at his sandwich the next day, and when he looks up, he sees Joe Lambert gazing down at him with a sappy look on his face.

"Aww, look, Connie," Joe says to Kowalski, "our boy has a sandwich from Mommy." He peers into the brown paper bag. "Did she put a Twinkie in there for you, sweetheart?"

"Mallomars," John says, baring his teeth.

Joe pats his shoulder. "You make sure you eat that all up, now," he says, cackling as he saunters away. "You're still a growing boy."

John shakes his head and takes a bite of his pickle, savoring the perfect crunch of it. Joe's just jealous, he decides, because nobody makes him lunches this good.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

A couple of weeks later, the case finally breaks wide open on an anonymous tip, and there's a brief, shining moment when they all feel like it's worth it. John goes out with the rest of the division that night, nursing a single beer while most of the rest of them knock back shot after shot of the hard stuff.

After a while he realizes what the itch under the surface of his skin is: it feels strange not being with Matt after work. They don't have a set schedule, John doesn't have to report in or be there every night, but it still feels weird to be doing something without him. And that's when it slams into him, broadsides, that this is a habit, a thing, and he's in deeper than he wants to admit he is.

The thought terrifies him. But underneath the terror is something else, something warm and half-remembered, a feeling of comfort, of stability, of knowing you're not completely fucking alone in the universe. John hadn't realized how much he missed that feeling. He's not really sure how he's lived without it all this long, how his heart has gone on beating in his chest.

John thinks about calling him – the bar isn't far from the apartment, Matt could be there in twenty minutes – but he doesn't. How would John introduce him? Is this something Matt would even be into, spending the evening with a bunch of cops drinking straight rye like it was tap water?

Does he even know what the hell Matt's into? Have they actually done anything outside Matt's apartment since they got together? Jesus, no, they haven't. He's been fucking Matt for nearly three months and he hasn't even gone out on a _date_ with him yet.

"I gotta go," John says suddenly, setting his half-finished beer on the bar.

"Where're you goin'?" Joe asks.

John scratches at the back of his neck. "I – uh, somebody's expecting me." It's not exactly true, but that doesn't matter, because John's whole body is already anticipating the moment when he walks through that door, sees Matt, touches him. It's crazy, but he can't help it. What's worse, he doesn't even think he wants to help it.

Lambert raises an eyebrow at him and checks his watch meaningfully. "Man, I figured you had to have a new lady in your life, what with the lunches and all, but I didn't know she had you on such a short leash."

"It's a he," John says blandly, ignoring the way Joe's eyes almost bug out of his head at that, "and I'm going because I want to."

"Okay," Joe says, holding up his hands in a placating gesture – hey, they all got the sensitivity training last year – "uh, have fun."

"Thanks," John says, nodding as he heads for the door, praying he can get a taxi fast.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

John shows up at Matt's door around 11:30 to find him already (or maybe still) in pajama bottoms and that same worn-out t-shirt. Matt's mouth tastes of fresh toothpaste, and he feels a little rubbery, like his muscles are already relaxing into sleep. When they surface for air, Matt draws back, evading John's seeking mouth so he can look into his eyes.

"You solved it."

John stares at him for a moment, then breaks into a grin. "Yeah. We did. Busted them this afternoon."

"Them?"

John's own muscles tense up. "The parents."

"Oh, shit," Matt breathes.

"Yeah," John says. "Listen, can we not – "

"Talk about it? Sure, no problem," Matt says easily, "but you will, right? To someone?"

"Yeah, don't worry," John growls, reeling him in, and Matt mutters, "I do, you know," close against his ear, and John's hands tighten on Matt's biceps before he lets him go and steps back.

"What?" Matt demands, taking a step forward, not letting John build up any distance between them. "I can make you sandwiches, but I can't worry about you?"

"No, that's not it," John says, but it is and they both know it. "It's just – that's how it starts."

"What does?" Matt says, and now his voice is gentle, too gentle. John closes his eyes and shakes his head, once, then leans in and kisses Matt. He tries to deepen it like he always does, but for once Matt isn't in the mood for that, pulling back and keeping it light. It drives John crazy, because this isn't what Matt's supposed to want, isn't what Matt's supposed to make _him_ want, and so he pushes until Matt's back hits the steel column near the kitchen. Matt makes a little noise then – John's not sure if it's frustration or pain – before shoving at him and opening up to him, giving back, biting at John's mouth.

After that, it's a stumbling progress to the bedroom, both of them stripping as they go, impatient to get naked. Matt's got the advantage over him, considering he didn't have much on in the first place, and he's out of his clothes in about fifteen seconds. It takes all the effort John can muster to walk and remember how to unbutton his shirt with Matt's pale ass taunting him on the way. "Try to keep up, McClane," Matt throws over his shoulder, and that's it, John flings off the shirt, takes four big strides forward and grabs Matt around the waist.

"Hey!" Matt yells, but it's too late, John's got him off-balance. He drags him the last few feet to the bed, then shoves him down and glares at him as Matt scrambles backward and pulls himself to a sitting position. His eyes are wide, but apart from that, he doesn't seem all that disconcerted by the manhandling, if his dick is any indication.

Matt follows the line of John's gaze and grins, then wraps his hand around the territory in question and gives himself a couple of long, tight strokes. "You gonna strip for me, McClane?" Matt asks, closing his eyes briefly as he thumbs the head of his cock. "Because I wouldn't have any objections to that, just so you know."

The ludicrous suggestion startles a laugh out of John. "Jesus, the stuff you come up with."

Matt frowns. "What do you mean?"

"What, you're serious?"

"Why wouldn't I be?" Matt demands. His hand is lazily stroking his dick now, and John's momentarily distracted by the sight.

"Because it's stupid," John says flatly. "I'm a cop, not a Chippendale's dancer." He's also fifty-one goddamned years old, but that goes without saying.

Matt rolls his eyes. "Jesus, do Chippendale's dancers even exist any more? Look," he says, taking his hand off his cock and rising to his knees so that he can reach out to tug John down on the bed beside him, "I'm not talking about G-strings and cheesy disco music, okay? I'm talking about showing me your gorgeous, sexy bod – "

"Come _on_," John says, squirming.

Matt runs a hand through his hair and blows out a breath. "Man, you really have no idea how fucking hot you are, do you?"

"Geez, I don't have a self-esteem issue here," John says, trying not to sound as pissed as he feels, because he was really looking forward to having sex instead of talking about it, "I just – I don't _do_ stuff like that. I'm sorry if that makes me – vanilla –"

Matt snorts. "Oh my god, you did not just say 'vanilla'."

"– but that's the way it is," John finishes on a growl. He tries to shove himself to his feet, but Matt halts him with a surprisingly strong hand on his shoulder.

"Whoa, wait a minute, hold on," he says, voice soft. "How about I show you how good it can be? Do you trust me to do that?"

John shakes his head. "Kid, it's not a question of –"

"Do you trust me?" Matt's gaze is steady, unwavering. That stubbornness was the first thing that attracted John to him, and it's no different now; John's flagging erection takes an interest again, and he knows he's lost.

"Yeah, okay, sure," John manages, words forced up through a throat suddenly gone dry.

Matt smiles a little grimly. "Ringing endorsement there. Okay, stand up," he says, taking John's hands in his and urging him to his feet. Letting him go, he heads for the door, picking John's shirt up from the floor on the way and tossing it to him. "Put that on, will you? I'll be right back."

Mystified, John does as he's told, feeling stupid the whole time he's doing up the buttons he just finished undoing. After about a minute, John hears footsteps in the hall and turns around to see Matt entering the room in his t-shirt and pajamas again. His heart sinks as he realizes this is the brush-off, and okay, maybe he deserves it –

"Great," Matt says, coming to a stop just out of touching distance. "I'll start, okay?"

John opens his mouth to speak, but the words die in his throat when Matt reaches for the hem of his t-shirt and lifts it slowly, revealing a few inches of his flat, smooth belly. Considering the kid was naked a couple of minutes ago, the sight of a measly stretch of bare torso shouldn't be turning John on as much as it is. Matt's hand sweeps slowly across the swath he's revealed, fingers spread, and John's hands itch to take its place.

"That's it for now," Matt murmurs, a small, mischievous smile playing about his lips. "I have less to take off, so I gotta make it last. Your turn." John's hands rise slowly, then reach for his shirt buttons. As he pops one after the other, he sees that Matt's gaze is glued to every pop and he swallows hard. He opens his mouth to speak – because he should say how ridiculous this is and end it now – but the words won't come. Matt's looking at him like nobody's looked at him in – shit, maybe like _nobody's_ looked at him, period, and God help him, he doesn't want it to stop.

When John finally shrugs his shirt off his shoulders, Matt's flushed and his hands are clenching at his sides. "Right back at ya," John says, his voice a little too scratchy to make it sound like he's in control, but Matt doesn't seem to notice. John looks down when Matt's palm flattens against his cock; the gesture, he realizes, isn't to speed things up but to slow things down. Matt's gotten that turned on by John taking off his fucking shirt, and okay, John's starting to see the merit in this whole striptease act.

With a frustrated, strangled sound, Matt yanks his t-shirt over his head, then throws it aside. John watches the rapid rise and fall of his chest for a moment, then smiles, feeling the wickedness gather at the upturned corners of his mouth. "Gettin' a little impatient there, kid?"

"Like you're not," Matt throws back at him, tugging at his pajamas just enough to bare his hips. The sharply defined hollows make John's mouth water and his dick swell, and before he knows what he's doing he's fumbing with the button on his own pants and lowering the zipper.

Matt's soft chuckle brings him back, and he grits his teeth and slows it right down, taking so much time to get his pants off that Matt's chuckle dies and turns into a groan, then a plea, then an animal kind of growl. Before he can step out of the puddle of his trousers, Matt's there at his feet, mouthing his cock through his briefs and peeling him out of them with shaking fingers, and John's too fucking far gone to gloat.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

"I'm sorry," John says later, because even after an orgasm that's probably killed most of his brain cells, he's still feeling shitty about the way he's been taking Matt for granted, and now is as good a time as any to apologize for it. "I shouldn't just – keep showing up like this."

Matt snorts. "Yeah, because I find the spectacular sex to be so annoying."

John rolls to look at Matt. "I mean – I should call first to see if it's okay to come by. Or call if I'm not going to be around. I dunno. Something." He wipes a hand over his face. Jesus, he really did come his brains out; there's not much gray matter left for coherent conversation.

"Uh-huh," Matt says, seemingly unperturbed. He scratches his belly and yawns, then asks, "Hey, you want some lasagna for lunch tomorrow? I made some fresh tonight."

"See, that's what I'm talking about!" John exclaims.

Matt only rolls his eyes. "It's not a human tragedy that I cook a little extra pasta some nights, McClane. One of the scariest things I've discovered about myself in the last year is that I like to cook. So I cook. If you're around to eat it, that's fine, because some of the shit you eat in the run of a week probably qualifies as toxic waste. But if you're not, I don't mope around the apartment and cry into my cannelloni. I wrap it up and I've got leftovers the next day. No biggie."

John props himself up on an elbow. "What I'm _trying_ to say," he manages, and God, he can't believe he's the one trying to talk about the relationship, "is maybe we should go somewhere sometime." He waves his free hand. "You know. Out."

Matt flutters his eyelashes and clasps his hands together. "Why, Detective McClane, are y'all askin' li'l ol' me on a date?"

John chuckles. "That's the worst fucking Daisy Duke impression I've ever heard."

"I'm branching out. That was Scarlett O'Hara. After all, I want to reference the cultural icons from your generation, too."

"My – you're a laugh riot, you know that? Believe it or not, _Gone With the Wind_ is even a little bit before my time."

"Well," Matt says, rolling onto his back and grinning, "actually, I was thinking more Civil War era..."

John pokes him in the side, eliciting a startled yelp, then proceeds to swing a leg over Matt's hips and tickle his squirming, naked body until he's begging for mercy. Somewhere around the time Matt's close to hyperventilating John realizes he's getting hard again, so he reaches back and takes Matt's dick in his hand. Matt's breath stops in his throat and his eyes go wide, and it's not long before he's back in business, thanks to the limitless stamina of the young and perpetually horny.

John reaches over and grabs the lube, and soon he's got two fingers in his own ass while Matt stares at him like he's the best thing since Red Bull. They've done it this way before, but not nearly as often as they've done it the other way. Until now, John never realized how much the kid wanted it. It's enough to make him feel like a heel if he focuses on it, so he doesn't focus on it. Instead, he concentrates on the sensation of Matt under him, the anticipation of having him inside, and pretty soon there's nothing left but the heat and the want and Matt's dark brown eyes, watching him with an intensity that floors him.

"So," John murmurs, lowering himself onto Matt's cock while Matt strokes his thighs with soothing hands, "you want to go out with me or not?"

"Well," Matt pants, fingers clutching at John's skin convulsively as John begins to move, "since you ask – so nicely, how – can I – refuse?"

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Two days later he gets a call from Lucy at work. "I was beginning to wonder if something had happened to you," she says by way of introduction. "I've been calling and calling, but you're never home."

"Why didn't you just leave a message on the machine?" he demands, aware he sounds petulant but not caring much. He leaves her messages all the damn time, and it's even money if she calls him back within a week.

"Because I wanted to talk to you, not a machine," she shoots back, and suddenly he's reminded of a freakishly similar conversation he had with Holly a million years ago, only that was his line. "Where have you been, anyway? You're usually home by ten."

John's throat nearly closes over, and it takes him a couple of seconds to remember how to breathe. He wants to say he's been working late hours on a case, but that's only partly true. When the words don't come, Lucy fills in the blanks for him: "Oh my god, you – you've got a girlfriend, haven't you?"

"Not exactly," John croaks, and he's still scrambling for words when Lucy continues on, seemingly oblivious to his discomfort.

"Okay, so you're dating. Whatever. How long have you been seeing her?"

John's mouth opens and closes a couple of times. "Since – since February."

"And you didn't _tell_ me?" Lucy squeaks. "Dad! That's a _relationship_, whether you want to admit it or not."

"Lucy, you and I, we don't – talk about this stuff," John manages, and it's true, he's never told her anything about the women he's dated, though maybe that's because no woman he's dated has ever stuck around long enough for it to become an issue. He fights the urge to giggle hysterically as he realizes that his longest relationship since Holly is with a computer geek half his age with no discernible gag reflex who, oh yeah, also happens to have a dick. This is probably not the way he should describe the situation to his daughter, though he's damned if he knows how else to begin.

John can practically hear Lucy roll her eyes on the other end of the line. "I'm not asking for all the gory details, just – well, I guess I like to know that you're happy," she finishes, almost belligerently, and John feels like pond scum. "Does she make you happy, Dad?"

"Yeah," John says, surprised at how easily the answer comes, "yeah, I'm happy."

"Well, good. That's good," she says, and John can hear the smile in it and smiles, too. "So, look, I know you're busy, but I just called to invite you down to Philadelphia next weekend. I'm having a Memorial Day party and I wanted you to come."

For the second time in as many minutes, John's surprised. He knows Lucy's landed a research job at Rutgers this summer and has rented a house off-campus with a couple of her friends, but this is the first time she's actually invited him to visit her since she moved back East to go to school. Granted, he recognizes that in the past he hasn't exactly made her _want_ to invite him, but whichever way you slice it, this is a big step forward.

"Jack's going to be there, too," Lucy says, with a little less enthusiasm. Jack had always taken after his mother, and since the time he was about fifteen, John's never really known what the hell to say to him. Now that Jack's going to be starting his first year of an M.B.A. at the University of Chicago, John feels like he and his namesake have about as much in common as Donald Trump and Donald Duck.

"I'd love to come, honey. Thanks," he says simply.

"You can bring your special someone with you if you want," Lucy says, and John can tell she's grinning now.

"Uh, well, I – " he begins, floundering.

"Come on, Dad," Lucy wheedles. "I'm going to meet her sooner or later. This'll be a perfect opportunity."

"I'll ask," John says, suddenly desperate to finish this conversation. "I can't guarantee – "

"That's fine. I'll e-mail you the details, okay? And no need to bring anything. Just yourselves." She puts a little too much emphasis on the second syllable of that last word, and John winces and says goodbye. He stares at his monitor for a couple of minutes, the report he was planning to write totally expunged from his head. With a growl, he pushes himself to his feet and heads out, figuring there's got to be some crime going on somewhere.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

He takes Matt out on the weekend – first, for dinner at a Moroccan place Joe recommended, where they eat with their hands. Predictably, he ends up with rice in his lap, but he doesn't mind; the food's delicious, and Matt seems to enjoy it. They end up back in Brooklyn, where John drags Matt to a hole in the wall club not far from his apartment to see Slavic Soul Party, a bunch of local guys who play some kind of crazy jazz-r&amp;b-salsa fused with Eastern European folk music. Matt taps his foot to the music right from the beginning and buys both their CDs, which John takes as a victory for his rusty first date skills.

John's apartment isn't set up for entertaining, or much else, really. There's a TV that's at least fifteen years old, a stereo system that still has a turntable, and furniture that for the most part is cheap and ugly, nearly all of it bought after the breakup and the move back to New York. He feels kind of weird bringing Matt back here, because it's not the first time he's thought of this place as a monument to his failures, and he doesn't want Matt to see that.

Matt doesn't seem to notice John's discomfort, though. When John comes back from the kitchen with matching tumblers of scotch, he finds Matt checking out the books he keeps on the melamine and particle board bookcase he bought at Wal-Mart. "Mark Twain, Steinbeck, Upton Sinclair?"

John hands Matt one of the glasses and takes a long sip from the other. "I read, Farrell."

"Yeah, I knew that. It's just – if I'd had to guess at the stuff you'd like to read, this would have been it."

"You want a gold star?" John says dryly, but inside his heart's hammering against his rib cage, because how the hell can Matt know him that well after only a few weeks?

"Putz," Matt says, affectionately. He trails a finger over the well-worn spines, then selects a thick clothbound volume. "Mind if I borrow this?"

"No, go ahead," John says. It's Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_. He's reread a bunch of those poems more than once in the last couple of months, but he's not going to admit that. Matt places the book and his empty glass on the old maple coffee table and walks up to John, winding his arms around his neck.

"So, do I get the grand tour?" he asks softly, tilting his head and smiling.

"Not much to show, kid," John answers, just as softly.

Matt nuzzles his neck and slides his hands down John's back to his ass. "I was thinking about one room in particular, actually."

If there's one bright spot in John's decorating scheme, it's the bedroom. John inherited his aunt and uncle's bedroom furniture a few years ago, a solid oak set that once belonged to his grandparents. The bed's so big that he rattles around in it all by himself, but it's as comfortable as a cloud.

Matt lets out a low whistle when he sees the room. "Wow, nice," he says, running a hand over the smooth wood of the slatted footboard. "You get this in the divorce?"

John shakes his head. "It belonged to my aunt, and to my grandmother before her."

"I don't know anything about your grandmother," Matt says, sitting on the edge of the bed. "Tell me about her."

John stares at him. "Now?"

Matt chuckles. "Relax. You bought me dinner, I'm gonna put out." He pats the mattress beside him. Smiling in spite of himself, John moves to obey.

"She was – really, really Catholic," he begins, and Matt's smile broadens. "Crucifixes all over the place, the shrine in the front yard. She used to do the washing by hand, even after Dad offered to buy her a washing machine. She was Old Country, you know? She'd come over as a girl just after the turn of the century, and nothing was ever the same here."

"Where was she from?"

"Serbia."

"Hunh," Matt says. "I would've said you were pure Irish."

John shakes his head. "I'm pure New Yorker – Heinz 57. About half Irish, a little Italian, one Russian Jewish great-grandfather on my mother's side, and my grandmother on my dad's." He takes a deep breath, remembering. "She knew how to make lace. Her mother had taught her. But she had all boys, and none of their wives were interested in picking it up. She always wanted to teach me Serbian, but I never learned."

"Why not?" Matt asks.

"Because I was a dumbass kid, and I blew her off," John snaps. "I kept telling myself I'd have a chance to learn it later. Well, she died when I was sixteen, and then there were no more chances." He waves a hand. "That place I took you to tonight – that band. They sing in the language and I don't understand one damned word."

Matt squeezes his hand briefly. "I had it easy. My parents are pure, 100% boring WASPs. Once I learned English, I was all set on the cultural heritage front."

It shouldn't make John laugh, but it does, and then he's leaning in to kiss Matt, because when he's with him, the past doesn't seem so huge and all-encompassing, a litany of one botched opportunity after another, and the future doesn't loom over him, murky and unknowable. Right now, his present is all he can find it in him to care about, and it's a damned good one, here with Matt's lips caressing his, Matt's breath catching in his throat as John pulls him closer.

And then Matt's drawing back, gentling his kisses when John tried to deepen them. John makes a disappointed, questioning sound, but Matt's firm. "Hey," Matt murmurs, and John opens his eyes reluctantly to find a considering look on Matt's face, like John's a computer he's trying to hack.

"What's wrong?" John asks.

Matt reaches out to touch John's stubbled cheek with strong fingers, and John closes his eyes again as Matt leans in to nibble his earlobe. "Nothing. I just want to take it slow with you in this old-fashioned bed. You mind?"

John shakes his head mutely because he's momentarily forgotten how to speak. Matt whispers, "Good," and then kisses his way back to John's mouth, lips soft on John's jaw and chin.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Sunday morning there's nothing decent to eat in John's house, so they go out for brunch at a local restaurant that promises to serve 'pancakes as big as your head'. When the plate thuds down in front of Matt, his eyes nearly pop out.

"Holy shit, they weren't lying," he breathes. John watches, amused, as he picks up the topmost pancake and holds it up in front of his face. "What do you think?"

"I think it's an improvement over your usual look," John quips. "You should wear it all the time."

Matt flops the pancake back onto the plate. "Keep that up and just see if you get a blow job out of me later," he says, only to have the teenage girl in the booth across from them nearly choke on her bacon at that one.

"Geez, this is a family restaurant," John growls, making a show of stabbing his eggs.

"Serves her right for eavesdropping. Anyway, if it'll make you feel better, I'll pretend you're my dad."

John swallows. "Uh, speaking of that," he says, trying for casual and missing it by a mile, "Lucy called me a couple of days ago."

"Oh yeah?" Matt says through a mouthful of pancakes. "How's she doing?"

"Fine, great," John manages. He takes a gulp of his coffee, then sets the mug down and looks Matt in the eye. "She, uh, invited me to spend Memorial Day with her. She's having a get-together at her new place in Philadelphia."

"Oh, well, sure, that's cool," Matt says affably, shrugging, "we can hook up after the weekend – "

"No, that's, I mean, why don't you come?" he blurts, and holy shit, holy shit, what is he _doing_?

Matt stares at him. "You want me – to come?"

John takes a deep breath. "Lucy guessed I was seeing someone," he says, spreading his hands. "She told me to invite you."

"Okay," Matt says slowly, setting his fork down. "Did she invite me, Matt Farrell, or did she invite a non-specific someone who probably has breasts?"

John takes another sip of his coffee. "I didn't get into details with her on the phone, if that's what you mean."

"Right, so, breasts, then," Matt mutters. Leaning forward, he murmurs, "Don't you think it might be a good idea to let her know the score before we show up on her doorstep? I mean, I'm guessing she doesn't know you swing both ways."

John's jaw twitches. "No. She doesn't."

"Yeah, well –"

"Look," John says, casting a quick glance at the bacon girl before leaning in, "it won't be a big deal. She used to love to tell me how she'd joined PFLAG her first year at Rutgers, collected signatures on a petition against the marriage amendment, like she thought maybe she was going to shock me or something. She'd be a hell of a hypocrite if she had a problem with this. And that's not my Lucy."

Matt blows out a breath. "Okay," he says heavily, "you know her best, man."

John leans back against the booth's bench seat. "How did your parents react when you told them?"

Matt makes a face as he chews. "I've managed to avoid that particular conversation, actually," he answers. At John's raised eyebrows, he shrugs. "Look, it's not like I'm hiding it from them, it's just, well, we don't talk much about anything that matters to me. We never have." He takes another bite of pancake.

"Why not?" John asks. He's genuinely curious, because he's experienced that same difficulty in connecting with his own kids, and he's finally got a chance to see it from the other side.

"Honestly? I really don't think they've ever given much of a damn if I was happy." There must be something in John's reaction that reads as disbelief, because he adds hastily, "No, seriously, I'm not trying to be all emo here. The last time I told them about anyone I cared about, it was seventh grade. I was head over heels in love with Trudy Wanamaker. I mean, she was _everything_ – I would've given up Nintendo if she'd asked me, okay? So one night at dinner, they go around the table like they always do, the standard 'and what did you do in school today, insert child's name here?', and when they get to me, I hear myself say, 'Today I decided I'm going to marry Trudy Wanamaker as soon as they'll let me.' And Mom says, 'Oh, that's nice, dear. Pass the peas to your brother, would you?' and Dad screws up his face like he's smelled something and goes back to shoveling food in his mouth."

He spreads his hands, shrugs again. "Anyway. It sounds like I'm complaining, but I'm really not. It is what it is – they are what they are. Just – look, I don't want you to think I'm not telling them about you because I'm ashamed." And then Matt's gaze locks with his, and John can't look away if he wants to. "I don't want to tell them because they haven't got the _right_ to dismiss this."

John takes a sip of coffee to combat the sudden tightening in his throat. "So," he says, when he can trust his voice again, "what happened to Trudy?"

Matt's mouth curves. "Tragic story. She left me halfway through eighth grade for the captain of the gymnastics team." He sighs heavily. "I couldn't compete with a guy who could cross his legs behind his head."

John swallows just in time to avoid inhaling his coffee.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

The nearer they get to Philadelphia, the more nervous Matt seems to get. By contrast, John feels progressively more numb, like his brain is losing touch with the rest of his body, or maybe it's the other way around, and fuck, this is going to be a disaster. He's never been the poster boy for dad of the year, and he has a strong suspicion that he's not going to land a spot on this year's ballot, either, especially after he introduces his kids to his brand new alternative lifestyle.

He sighs and rolls his shoulders to work the kinks out as he drives. Well, whatever happens, he's guessing it won't be boring.

"Can we stop at the next exit? I'm dying for an iced coffee."

John cocks an eyebrow at him. "Kid, if somebody stuck a needle in you right now, they'd find caffeine molecules where your red blood cells are supposed to be."

Matt kneads the place between his eyebrows between his thumb and forefinger. "Funny. No, really, I can feel the headache starting, and you do not want me in withdrawal today. Trust me on this."

"Okay, okay," John rumbles, passing one last pickup and signaling to move into the slow lane.

Once he's got his extra tall drug of choice in hand, Matt actually calms, which has the effect of pissing John off a little. He finds himself wishing he was back in his college days before he joined the force; he'd been hip once, he'd smoked weed and let his hair grow. Hell, it had been longer than Matt's.

All thoughts of his youth disappear when they reach Lucy's place. The place she and her friends are renting is actually a three-story townhouse in Belle Vista that dates from about the turn of the century; the street is lined with tall trees that shade the sidewalks and the fronts of the houses. As they reach the front stoop, John realizes his hands are clammy with sweat; he wipes them on his trousers before ringing the bell.

"No backing out of it now," Matt mutters, seemingly to himself. After a few seconds, there's the thudding sound of footsteps on hardwood floors, and then Lucy's throwing the door open, her grin wide as she takes John in.

"Dad!" she exclaims, launching herself into his arms and almost squeezing the breath out of him. He does his best to squeeze back, but his reaction time's slow, and by the time he gets his arms around her she's pulling away to stare at Matt.

"Matt? Matt Farrell? Oh my God!" John steps aside to let Lucy tug at Matt's hands and draw him into a hug that looks almost as bone-crushing as the one she bestowed on John. "Dad didn't tell me he was bringing you! What a wonderful surprise!"

John lets out a breath, feels the knot that's been lodged between his shoulder blades for the past hour finally loosen. Matt pats Lucy on the back and murmurs, "I'm, uh, I'm really glad you see it that way."

"Well, why wouldn't I?" Lucy says, drawing back with a small frown creasing her brow. "Of course I'm happy to see you."

Matt's smile finally comes out, and John's grin is swift to match it. "Oh. Well, great. That's really great."

Lucy smiles back, then peers past Matt to look down the street. "Where is she, Dad? Is she parking the car?"

The lingering euphoria of relief means John's a little slow on the uptake. "She?"

"Your girlfriend," Lucy says. "You said you were going to bring her."

John blinks at her as every last ounce of relief goes up in smoke. He glances at Matt, who's frowning with dawning comprehension. "Uh," John says intelligently.

"Not that I mind you bringing Matt instead," she adds hastily, "but I was hoping to..."

"Lucy," Matt murmurs, shuffling his feet. Lucy turns to him, and the next thing John knows, he hears himself talking, as if somebody else is making his mouth move.

"She couldn't make it."

Lucy turns back to him, and John doesn't look at Matt, can't. "It was a last-minute thing. I didn't bother calling you."

"Oh," Lucy says. "Well, that's too bad, but at least you brought Matt. You don't mind standing in for Dad's girlfriend, do you, Matt?"

John does meet the look that Matt shoots him then; it's equal parts confusion, hurt and anger, and John feels like a bug on the bottom of somebody's shoe. "Not at all," Matt says, gaze deliberately turning from John's to meet Lucy's. "I'm prettier than she is, anyway."

Lucy throws back her head and laughs, then takes Matt by the arm and leads him inside. John trails behind them, sure that if he had a tail it'd be tucked between his legs right now.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

The afternoon is about as enjoyable for John as passing kidney stones, though he knows he has nobody to blame for that but himself. Lucy's friends are nice enough – mostly psychology grad students like her, though there's a smattering of engineers, history and philosophy majors, a sociologist or two. A guy shows up with a guitar not long after he and Matt arrive, and starts playing softly out on the back patio.

John moves through the crowds, the laughter, the music, the freely flowing booze, the seemingly endless supply of junk food, without paying much attention to any of it. He's the oldest one there by two decades and more, and he steps carefully around the knots of partygoers, trying to find a hole big enough to crawl into. He ends up on the back porch with guitar guy, and when he finishes his song, John introduces himself and passes him the beer he's been carrying around unopened since somebody stuck it in his hand.

"You know any Creedence?" he asks.

The guy – Gary – pauses, thinking. "How about Proud Mary?"

John nods, and Gary goes into a nice, slow rendition with plenty of groove in it. It isn't long before John's humming along, then singing quietly. This is something else he used to do a million years ago: he recalls, with sudden, vivid clarity, singing his kids to sleep when they were still small enough to hold in his two hands.

"I remember that one," says a deep voice above him. John looks up, startled, to see a tall young man standing over him.

"Jack," John says, rising to his feet. His son is squinting in the bright afternoon sunlight, and his smile is hesitant, and at first John doesn't know what to do.

Then Jack takes John's shoulders in his hands and squeezes. "Good to see you, Dad," he says, the words simple and heartfelt, and John's shocked to feel tears prick at the corners of his eyes at that, has to hook an arm around Jack's neck and haul him in close for a moment so that he doesn't break down like the idiot he is.

"You, too, sprout," John says. That was their thing when Jack was five – John was the Jolly Green Giant and Jack was Lil' Sprout, and they'd clomp around Central Park on Sunday afternoons looking for beanstalks to climb. When Jack's arms tighten around him, John knows he's thinking about the same thing.

"How – how've you been doing?" Jack asks when they pull back; John notices his eyes look suspiciously bright, too, but neither of them talks about it. _Maybe we still have something in common after all_, John thinks ruefully.

John nods curtly. "Fine, I've been good," he says. _Better than good_, he wants to say, but just like on Lucy's front stoop, the words won't come. "It's been too long," he adds, and while he doesn't mean for the words to sound accusing, he supposes they are. It's been nearly two years since John's seen Jack on anything but a damn Internet phone camera. He bought one last fall when he realized he wasn't entirely sure what his own kid looked like now.

Jack looks at him sheepishly. "Yeah, listen, I've been meaning to get out to New York for a visit, I really have, but last year was crazy, and starting next week I've got that summer placement I told you about with Merrill Lynch and I'm not getting any vacation."

John shifts his feet. "You think maybe they'll let give you time off for good behavior by Thanksgiving?"

"Yeah, maybe," Jack says, rubbing at the back of his neck. "If I'm lucky."

"Okay, then, it's a date," John says. He knows he's said this a couple of times before, and Jack's always had something else going on, but maybe this time it'll happen. He's never going to give up hoping, anyway. He wants to ask Jack if he thinks it's worth it, if making his first million before he's thirty will make up for the lost pieces of his life he's giving up bit by precious bit, but he doesn't say it.

"You got a girlfriend these days?" John asks, searching for a more neutral topic.

Jack shakes his head. "Nothing serious. But Lucy tells me you've got something going on," he adds, grinning, and John just manages to avoid cringing.

"Yeah, about that – " John begins. He trails off, takes a deep breath.

"Say, speaking of romance, who's that guy Lucy's all over, anyway?" Jack demands suddenly, hooking a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the house. "He looks familiar but I can't place him. She said his name was Matt something?"

John's blood freezes in his veins. He steps around Jack, squinting against the sunlight to try to make out shapes in the darker interior of the house. The throaty sound of his daughter's laughter pulls him inside, and as soon as his eyes adjust he sees Lucy standing in the middle of the kitchen, her arm casually slung around Matt's waist as she talks with some of her friends.

He should be moving forward, should be taking his son and his daughter aside right now and setting them straight, but he's riveted to the spot like a fucking statue, and all he can think is, _they look right. That's what it's supposed to look like_.

"Dad?" Jack's hand on his shoulder brings him back to reality, and he shakes himself like a wet dog.

"I, uh," John says, "I gotta use the facilities. I'll be right back."

They're both lies: ten minutes later he's still in the bathroom, sitting on the closed lid with his head in his hands. He's been telling himself he should be glad, he should be relieved, but he's not glad, and he's not relieved, and he doesn't even know how he's going to leave this bathroom in Philadelphia and go back to his pathetic fucking life in Brooklyn.

Goddammit, he's too old for this to hurt so much.

The knock doesn't even register with him at first; when it gets louder and more insistent, John scrubs his face with his hands and snarls, "All right, all right, I'll be out in a minute. Keep your shirt on."

"I don't mind taking it off if it'll get your sorry ass out here faster," a familiar voice says from the other side of the door.

John crosses the room and yanks the door open to find Matt standing, arms folded, expression wry and exasperated and more than a little pissed off. "Well, should I come in or are you coming out? Oh, and that pun is intentional, by the way."

John turns and walks back inside, and after a couple of seconds he hears Matt's sigh, then the sound of the antique door latch sliding home as Matt locks them both inside.

"So the way I figure it, breaking it to them gently is highly overrated," Matt says. "I vote for going downstairs and bending you over the sofa. You think that'll make it obvious enough for them?"

John turns to face Matt, shakes his head once. "Look, I know I fucked up, and I'm sorry. But – I think it's probably better this way, in the end."

He can practically see the wheels turning in Matt's head as he processes this. When he finally gets it, the expression on his face is enough to turn John's stomach. "Jesus Christ," Matt says softly. "And here I thought you were afraid to come out to them. But that's not it at all, is it?"

John looks away. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Matt's silent for a few seconds, long enough that John sneaks a look at him again, and then he watches as Matt unfolds his arms and drops them to his sides. "How old were you when you knew you wanted to spend the rest of your life with Holly?" Matt asks.

John frowns at the question. "I proposed to her when I was twenty-two. Why?"

Matt's gaze caresses him, and he takes a step forward, then another, closing the distance between them. John doesn't move as Matt's hands reach up to cup his face tenderly, but his eyes close briefly. Matt waits until they're open again before he speaks.

"John, I'm twenty-five," he murmurs, and he holds John there, gaze searching his, until John feels the realization hit him like a gut punch.

"You – "

"Yeah, you asshole. I don't want your daughter. Or your son, for that matter, though he's pretty hot for a Young Republican type. Or any of the five hundred and thirty-two other people in this house, despite the fact that any one of them would be a more age-appropriate choice. Go figure." He lets go of John then and steps back.

John stares at Matt, his mouth unable to form words if his life depended on it. The last time he felt like this, slow and stupid and struck dumb, there was a guy standing at his front door serving him with divorce papers.

"Look, I just called an old friend over in Camden; I'm going to hook up with him and some other guys I haven't seen in a while. I'll make my own way back to New York, all right? You stick around here with your family; I'm done horning in for the day."

"Matt, I – "

"It's okay," Matt says, then shakes his head. "Well, no, actually, it's not, but it will be. Why don't you take a few days and just – think about what you want, huh? Now that you know how old I am."

He lets himself out, and after a couple of minutes, John goes downstairs to find Matt's already gone. Lucy's confused, but soon gets over it, and by nightfall, John's alone in his car, driving the endless stretch of interstate back to his pathetic fucking life.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

He manages exactly three weeks without Matt; it would have been longer, but the problem is that he's rapidly turning into a complete and total prick. He's not worried about the booze – he came to terms with that over a decade ago, and can take it or leave it at will – he's worried about becoming one of those stationhouse curmudgeons they warn the rookies to stay away from. When Lambert takes him aside one day and tells him, nicely, that he needs to either get laid or get a whole hell of a lot more fiber in his diet, he knows it's time to smarten the fuck up.

The thing is, he's been waiting for that magic moment when it'll all fall into place, when he feels one hundred percent right about the relationship, but now he doubts he ever will. No matter what Matt says, he can't erase the age difference between them, or take away the ache in John's bones on cold mornings, or convince him he's found somebody who won't eventually leave him. However, John also knows three things: first, if he wants a worry-free relationship, he'll have to buy himself a blow-up doll. Second, nothing in love is certain: in fact, it's basically an elaborate tightrope act without a net.

The third thing he knows is the most important: Matt's worth conquering the fear of stepping out into thin air.

On the third Saturday after Lucy's party, he meets her at an IHOP in Philadelphia for brunch, and over strawberry waffles that can't hold a candle to Matt's, he finally tells his daughter about himself. About how lonely he's been for, Christ, years, and how Matt made that feeling disappear in a few short weeks, and how scared he is that he's fucked it all up. By the time he's done, Lucy's looking a little frayed around the edges, and he's not feeling too together himself, but when she hugs him goodbye and whispers, "Be happy, Daddy," in his ear, it suddenly becomes just that simple.

He breaks the speed limit the whole width of New Jersey, but the radar gods must be smiling on him today, because he makes it back without incurring the wrath of the highway patrol. He stops outside Matt's place just before six, and rings the buzzer downstairs before he can talk himself out of it. He wants to run, and then he doesn't, and then Matt's buzzing him upstairs without even asking who's there. He's about halfway up before he realizes Lucy must have called him, and it makes him smile.

Matt's there waiting for him at the door. "Before you lecture me about letting potential psycho killers into the place –"

"Lucy told you I was coming," John finishes.

Matt blinks. "Yeah. She's kind of a freak, you know? She asked if she could start calling me 'Poppa', since 'Dad' was already taken."

"What did you tell her?" John asks, his hands clenching at his sides.

"I told her to go ahead, as long as I got to spank her when she was naughty."

John stares at Matt for a moment, all the words he's been rehearsing on the drive here deserting him. Matt looks at him wryly, then tugs at his ear. "Uh, hey, I'm sorry, look, come in," he says, stepping aside hastily to give John room to get by him. Somehow, John forces his feet to move, and when Matt turns back to him after shutting the door, he takes a deep breath and thinks, _Okay, it's now or never_.

Before he can speak, though, Matt beats him to it. "She also told me to go easy on you," he murmurs. "Said you can be kind of clueless sometimes."

John clears his throat. "What did you say to that?"

"I can't remember my exact words, but I think they were something along the lines of 'Duh'."

John barks a laugh, but there's a little too much desperation in it, so he chokes it off. Matt takes a step toward him, then another; John watches him come closer, too scared to hope.

"She also told me you were worth it," Matt murmurs.

"And what'd you say to that?" John rasps.

Matt's fingers caress John's cheek, and John shudders with the effort of keeping his hands at his sides. "Pretty much the same thing," he says, a fond smile lighting his eyes.

"Oh, thank God," John breathes, and suddenly he's all motion, stepping forward and hauling Matt close, closer, until he's breathing him in, nose pressed against his soft hair.

"Hey, hey," Matt soothes, holding him just as tightly, "you didn't think I'd give up on you that easy, did you?"

John shakes his head, but maybe they both know he's lying, because he feels Matt press a kiss to his ear, his temple, his cheek, reassurances branded into his skin. John pulls back just enough to fit their mouths together, and Matt groans and opens against him, tongue stroking hot and insistent into his mouth. This is no time for taking it slow, for teases or old-fashioned courting; John needs this like he needs air, and Matt seems to get that, or maybe, just maybe, he feels the same way. Still kissing, they strip one another blindly, their hands finding buttons and zippers from memory alone.

By the time they reach the bed, Matt's mouth is the color of ripe strawberries, and John can't stop nipping and sucking them, as if he's trying to eat them off Matt's face. Matt shoves him down on the mattress and knees between his legs, and John spreads himself as wide as he can, inviting him in.

Matt stares down at him, hesitating for the first time. "You sure?"

"Yeah," John says. "Fuck me." Matt's head drops to John's shoulder for a moment, then he's sitting up and fumbling in the drawer. Matt starts opening him carefully, but John's so far past careful he wants to laugh, and he bucks up into Matt's fingers, taking him deep.

"Jesus, John," Matt moans. "Can I? Now?"

John's answer to that is to hook his heels around the small of Matt's back. Matt pants, "Okay, okay," and slicks on the condom, and then he's pushing inside. John's hands roam over his back, his hips, cup his muscular, rounded ass briefly, then glide over the downy hair at the tops of his thighs, urging him into the first shallow thrusts.

"Missed you, kid," John whispers, and Matt rewards him with a grin and a lewd swivel of his hips that has John seeing stars.

"Right back at you," Matt pants, starting a sinuous rhythm. John clutches at Matt's hips and thrusts up, moving in counterpoint, a loping pulse that swiftly increases in tempo. Matt's answering shout takes it up another notch, and soon they're locked together in a sweaty, clutching duet, mouths panting in unison, John's calves bumping against the smooth sides of Matt's bowstring-taut body as he fucks.

Matt's watching him, gaze steady and focused, and when John flings out his arms and grips the sides of the mattress, bracing himself, Matt growls and draws back, nearly withdrawing from John's body before slamming back in. John pushes back against the force of it, hitching his hips up higher, and the slight change in angle that results is, fuck, _perfect_, nudging Matt's cock against his prostate the next time he goes deep. Matt stills, eyes boring into him, and then he's pulling out and sliding back in at exactly the same angle, and it's too much, John's coming without even a touch to his own cock.

"Wow," Matt says, his tone almost reverent as he stares at John's dick. The ridiculous incongruity of it makes John laugh, a full, all-out belly laugh that shakes his whole body, makes him feel free and alive and more than a little bit crazy, but that's okay, that's more than okay.

    
    
    
    
 

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

    
    
    
    
 

Later, Matt complains that he's too worn out from all the fucking to cook, so they order pizza from down the street and eat it sprawled on Matt's couch, drinking beer and watching _America's Funniest Home Videos_ because there's nothing else on. John's borrowed a pair of Matt's pajama bottoms, which are decadently soft; no wonder the kid spends so much time in them. When the show ends, John notices a stray piece of pepperoni sitting on Matt's bare chest, which he picks up and pops into his mouth, grinning as Matt makes a face.

"Jeez, McClane, I came all over myself less than half an hour ago."

"Adds extra salt," John says, chewing open-mouthed, and Matt laughs and whacks him affectionately on the side of his head.

John drains the last of his beer and rises to his feet. "You want another one?"

Matt shakes his head. "Nah. I think there's orange juice in the fridge - pour me some, would you? I need to restore my electrolytes for some reason."

John thinks he could probably do with a few new electrolytes himself, so he pours them each a glass and bumps the fridge door closed with his hip. On his way back to the couch, he glances at Matt's desk, and something strange catches his eye, a brightly coloured book cover with Cyrillic writing on it. Setting the glasses down, he picks it up carefully and stares at the cover.

"Hey, where's my –" John looks up. Matt's gaze is darting between John's face and the book like John's caught him in something.

"What's this?" he asks, as Matt stands and approaches him.

"That's for you," Matt says softly. "It was going to be a surprise."

John grimaces. "Sorry."

Matt bumps him with his elbow. "Nah, it's cool. Saves me having to wrap it, anyway."

John flips open the book. _Serbian for Beginners_, it says, in Latin script. Below it is the same thing, he guesses, in Cyrillic again. He flips to the next page, and a small card flies out and falls on the floor. Matt stoops to pick it up, then hands it to John. There's the name of a woman – Sanja Raznatovic, B.Ed., M.A. – and an address in Brooklyn.

"That's part of it, too. I, uh, I looked around on the Net for language classes," Matt says, "but even in New York, there aren't a hell of a lot of Serbian courses, and the ones I could find were oriented to business or diplomatic use. Since I figured you wanted to learn conversation, not how to deliver a speech at the U.N., I went back to that place in Brooklyn and talked to the guys in the band – the one we saw that night. They recommended her. She said whenever you want to start, give her a call." He flips a hand at the card. "So, uh, as long as you want to take lessons, they're on me, okay?"

John starts to speak, feels his breath catch, then clears his throat and tries again. "Thanks," he manages finally, fingers sliding over the smooth cover of the book. "I – this means a lot to me."

"Well, I figured I missed Christmas, so," Matt says, shrugging, though there's a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"I'm pretty fucked up," John blurts. "But I'm guessing you knew that already."

Matt blinks at him. "Yeah, pretty much."

John sets the book down, then takes Matt's face in his hands. "And I'm crazy in love you."

Matt's smile grows. "Yeah?"

John kisses him softly, sweetly, keeping it as light as he can. "Yeah. You think you can put up with me?"

"I think so," Matt allows, kissing him back with more firmness and a lot more tongue, "if you learn how to talk dirty to me in Serbian."

John grins against Matt's lips. "Deal."

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: brief mention of a murder case involving children
> 
> A/N: Slavic Soul Party actually exists. Listen to them [here](http://www.slavicsoulparty.com/main.html).
> 
> First published April, 2008.


End file.
